


Leave Your Nightmare

by todisturbtheuniverse



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A little bit of fluff, Angst, Charlie and Dean are BFFs, Feelings, Firsts, Hopeful S08 Coda, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 01:42:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winchesters are off the radar, and Charlie's worried.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leave Your Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> This ficlet gained abrupt popularity on Tumblr, so I'm cross-posting it here for your enjoyment.

_Leave your name, number, and nightmare at the tone._

A southern, reedy drawl: “Dean, Garth here. Haven’t heard from you in a while. Wanted to check in, make sure all that prophet stuff’s going okay. Call me back, idjit.”

_Beep._

A husk, with a feminine lilt, vaguely Midwestern: “Sam’s not answering, either. Is something going on? Are you two okay? Call me back, Dean. I need to know if I should be looking for your dead bodies.”

_Beep._

Young, a little nasally, midtones: “Hey old man. It’s Krissy. I heard some pretty crazy sh--stuff--is going down. Anyway, you need help, give me a call.”

_Beep._

Shrill, worn-down by panic, an edge rubbed raw: “Winchester, I swear to God if you don’t pick up the phone and tell me where my son is, I will hunt you down myself!”

_Beep._

And her own voice, too casual, echoing back at her: “What’s up, bitch. Haven’t answered your e-mail or texts in a few days. You better not be dead.”

Charlie’s about to hang up--back out of Dean’s voicemail, go back to what little life she has, and hope to--to _something_ \--that she gets a call soon, when the box beeps again, and there’s a final message, all gravel and exhaustion, grating down into a painful rasp: “Dean,” the voice says, and like all the others, she doesn’t know this one, but he says Dean’s name like it’s salvation. “I’m...I need you. Please.” A cough, with fluid gargling in his chest. “I’m not sure where I am, but--I’ll turn on my phone’s GPS, and if you can find me, please, come--”

The message cuts off abruptly, and that’s it, Charlie’s not going to sit here and wait, and she’s halfway into her jacket when her phone rings.

 _Handmaiden_ , it says, and she laughs in relief, a little hysterical, and holds it up to her ear.

“What’s so funny?” Dean asks, his voice too hoarse, but at least it’s there.

“Are you okay?” she demands.

“Fine,” he says, but he sounds like he’s not so sure. “We’re all beat up pretty bad, but. Everybody’s alive. Doesn’t happen every time, like that.”

“Pretty bad?” she echoes, her heart clenching uncomfortably in her chest.

He pauses, and then, as though it kills him to say it--and she knows it does, because Dean Winchester does not ask for help--he husks out, “I could use a hand.”

“I’m on my way,” she says, already stuffing laptop and other necessities into her duffel. “Where are you? What do you need?”

“The bunker.” He clears his throat. “I need a whole identity,” he says, trying to make his voice hard, but the pain--an undercurrent--is overwhelming. “A life history. I can’t...I’m gonna screw it up.”

“For who?” she asks, heading for the door now.

“For Cas,” he says, and his voice actually _breaks_ , and he sounds like a little boy, lost and terrified. “For Castiel. He--he’s. He Fell, Charlie.”

She remembers the one book by Carver Edlund, the one titled _The End_ , and understands suddenly why Dean can’t just be happy that Castiel is still alive. “Is he okay?” she asks, running down the stairs now, hair flying out behind her.

“I think he needs a hospital,” Dean rasps.

“I’m coming, okay?” she reassures, jogging to her car. “How’s Sam?”

“Fine. Great. Not great, but--better than Cas.”

“Good. I’ll be there in a few hours. Hang on.”

She stands next to Dean in the hospital, where he’s still and pale as death, watching Castiel breathe. His freckles stand out, too stark against his shock-white skin. It’s night, and after visiting hours, but let it be said that no one can stand between Dean Winchester and his loved ones if he’s got a mind to be beside them. Castiel is sleeping--or maybe not, not really, maybe just knocked out--and breathing evenly, chest rising and falling to make up for Dean’s unnatural stillness.

“Does he know?” she asks. Dean needs to talk like this, vaguely, in order to say a damn thing about the important stuff--if they’re not being besieged by zombies, anyway.

“I don’t know,” he says, just as quiet, and finally moves to rub a hand over his eyes. They’re so bloodshot that the green stands out, livid, against the red all around it. “Every time I’ve tried to...” He trails off, and stares at Castiel some more. He hasn’t taken his eyes off him since they came in tonight. “It comes out wrong. I don’t know if he gets it.”

But Charlie saw, the way those bright blue eyes--even dark with pain--stared at Dean as she burst into the bunker. She’d never seen a face so raw with love and devotion before she saw the way Castiel looked at Dean. She worms herself against Dean’s side, beneath his arm, and rests her head against his shoulder. His hand curves around her, almost automatic, with a little hitch that says the physical comfort thing is still unnatural to him.

“I think he gets it,” she says quietly. “But if you’re really not sure, maybe you could just keep it simple, next time you try.”

He snorts. It’s half-hearted. “Yeah, Your Highness? What would I say?”

“I love you,” she says simply. “That’s usually a good start.”

Dean’s relaxed a little against her, some of the tension draining from him. “I don’t say that a hell of a lot,” he comments mildly.

She nods. “Maybe you should,” she says.

Later, when Dean thinks she’s asleep, curled in a corner chair in the hospital room, she hears him try out the words.

“I love you,” he says, and he sounds torn-up about it, but when she peeks her eyes open, he’s face down with his arms folded on the bed and Castiel’s hand is in his hair, gently stroking. Castiel’s eyes are still closed, but Charlie can see him smiling.

“You have always been well-beloved to me, Dean,” Castiel murmurs, in the voice from the message, all gravel and thunder.

Dean’s shoulders heave, and Charlie thinks he might be _crying_ , but then, instead, his voice is strained with repressing his laughter when he says, “ _I love you too_ would’ve been _fine_ , Jesus, Cas,” and Castiel smiles again, like all the tubing and machines hooked up to him don't bother him one bit.


End file.
